


SASO 2017: BR Fills

by justlikeswitchblades



Series: SASO 2017 [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!, Hikaru no Go, Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), ダイヤのA | Daiya no A | Ace of Diamond, 弱虫ペダル | Yowamushi Pedal
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Sports, Amputation, Anxiety, Cannibalism, Day At The Beach, Developing Relationship, F/F, Gen, Infidelity, Insecurity, M/M, MMORPGs, Mecha, Mixed Martial Arts, Murder, Pirates, Post-Canon, Religion, Sports Typical Injuries, Trans Male Character, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:17:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 13,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: A collection of SASO bonus round fills, typically shorter than 1,000 words.15) kagesuga resolving jealousy16) kikuro unrequited love17) ushioi at university18) fukushin pirates AU19) kise + kuroko + miragen mmorpg





	1. yowapeda adventure zone AU, G/T

**Author's Note:**

> yowapeda adventure zone AU prompted [here,](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9607954#cmt9607954) god this was fun to write

“Um, sir? I have a favor to ask.”

It’s a little past three in the afternoon; the Bureau cafeteria is absent of the lunch crowd that was milling about earlier, aside from the staff that have started to come in for the dinner service. Makishima has been on base long enough that he’s had indulged a thought or two about trying to switch his position around--missions can be trying, especially this last one--enough so that he’s tried to buddy up with the executive chef. (Her cooking is fine, but her personality is a little lacking.)

But staying on base permanently would also mean he’d be within eyesight of a certain leech possibly three times a day, nevermind encounters outside of that. Onoda has a tendency to seek him out like some kind of magic missile already; no matter where he goes, there’s at least a seventy-five percent chance that Onoda will find him. Novel in the first few days when he returns, but eventually, the kid’s fidgeting, wide-eyed enthusiasm starts to wear off again.

Makishima tries not to grimace too hard, but takes a second longer than usual to have his lazy grin appear.

“What’s happenin’, Sakameech?”

“You can call me Onoda, sir,” Onoda suggests with a small smile, fidgeting with the wand at the end of the lanyard around his neck. “I wanted to see if you’d like to go to the Fantasy Costco together.”

“Eh, I went with the boys when we came back from our last mission,” Makishima inspects his nails. “Shoulda jumped in when you had the chance, kiddo.”

“I’m usually, um, occupied when you first return the relics to the Director,” Onoda glances around, adjusting his glasses. “You remember the bicycle I had with me on the train when we first met, right? The one I inherited from my grandfather?”

Makishima bores holes into his own cuticles, smiling innocently. “Can’t say I do!”

“Oh...well, I thought it was gone for good. But then I saw something that looked _just_ like it in the Fantasy Costco the other day!”

Makishima raises an eyebrow, his smile shifting into a wider smirk. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” Onoda brightens with a smile. “It might not be the real deal, but, well, it’d be nice to have the memories even if they’re just that. Warlock Midosuji gave it a pretty hefty price, though, and well...maybe you could help me haggle?”

“Sure thing, pal,” Makishima returns the smile. “Just give me a sec, okay?”

Onoda nods enthusiastically. Makishima steps away, taking his Stone of Far-Speech out of his pocket.

“Holy shit. You guys need to see this.”

***

“Makishima...are you sure you want to do this?”

“Who are you to talk, Tadokoro?” Makishima eyes the dwarf. “Like you think the brat is any saint.”

“I know, I know, Pan can judge me all He wants when the time comes,” Tadokoro shrugs. “He’s still a kid, though. Right, Kinjou?”

Kinjou is quiet, wiping his sunglasses with his bandana. He puts them back on, and ties the bandana back around his neck, a smile twitching at his lips.

“It could be fun.”

Onoda is practically skipping inside the store; Makishima keeps his hands shoved inside the pockets of his romper, fearing Onoda might grab one if given the opportunity.

“BE CAREFUL OF THE MERCHANDISE!” A voice echoes, shrill, making Onoda yelp as a black cloud materializes in front of him, forming the shape of, and eventually, the proprietor himself. Midosuji leans in, making Onoda shrink further close to the ground, the tips of their noses separated by just a centimeter.

“The deals never last long, but there is no need to rush,” Midosuji clicks his teeth, plucking at the fabric of Onoda’s shirt with long fingers, elegant verging on eerie. “Why so much fuss, my boy?”

“Well, sir, you see that bike over there?” 

Midosuji’s head twists at an unnatural angle, eyes going to where Onoda is pointing.

“Ah! An aged vehicle, but not without its worth.” He twists back to Onoda. “Are you sure you can pay the price?”

“Well…” Onoda looks back to Makishima, who makes the smallest amount of eye contact, offering a wave of his fingers. Midosuji sighs, his body shaking with delight as he cups his own cheeks in his hands.

“My dearest customer! What would you like to offer up this time? Perhaps--” Midosuji steeples his fingers, optimistic. “The sword?”

“You’re all about equivalency, right?” Makishima grins back, a little lopsided. “I’m not sure if that’s a fair trade.”

“Oh. Of course.” Midosuji sets his jaw, sneering. “Because you are the expert on _fair trades_ around here, aren’t you.”

Makishima looks to Kinjou and Tadokoro. Tadokoro is distracted by a table laden with axes; Kinjou shields the goldfish swimming in a bubble at his hip when Makishima’s eyes drop over him.

“Listen, I know I’m fresh out of gold, and we have a bit of a past, but--”

“If you give nothing, you get nothing!” Midosuji sing-songs, his robes sweeping along the floor as he spies another customer entering. Onoda looks at Makishima, then looks at the floor, wallet in hand. Kinjou whistles, pausing at every other table until he’s made his way over to Onoda, dropping into a squat. 

“Try this when Midosuji’s distracted,” He presses the pocket workshop into Onoda’s hand and a finger to his lips, the boy’s eyebrows wrinkling in confusion.

“Sir--”

“I may not be a big spender,” Makishima pipes up, a glimmer in his eye, umbrella in hand. “But you’re worth the spell slot.”


	2. yuri on ice, viktuuri, mixed martial arts AU, T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> saso br1 prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=9619474#cmt9619474)

Yuuri doesn’t want to retire at 23. But there are a lot of factors that are trying to push him in that direction.

There’s his body, that can get him around no problem, save for his less than stellar vision and bulking that comes a little too easy in the offseason; competitors and their fans don’t hesitate to throw “sumo” jokes his way, and, well, he can’t say he expects anyone other than his agent and his family to make much of a fuss about it. There’s the anxiety of gearing up for a match, confident until the very moment he steps into the cage, his professional career plagued by losses, even though he’s trained just as much, if not more, than everybody else. He doesn’t drink much--to avoid gaining the weight, of course, but also because he’d rather not exacerbate the hopelessness that creeps into his thoughts in the middle of the night.

He heads home for Japan one winter, back to the comforts of his family-run bathhouse and the plan B that has always nestled itself into a corner of his mind: a stable, quiet career, with no surprises of knocked-out teeth or concussions. 

But Yuuri doesn’t receive the quiet he expects there. Instead, his homecoming is received by Victor Nikiforov-- _the_ Victor Nikiforov, the very man who first inspired him to take a trip to his local gym after a fateful night of channel-surfing a decade ago, with a golden ticket of an offer to become Yuuri’s coach. The last man Yuuri would ever expect to meet in his hometown, let alone retire and leave a lucrative UFC sponsorship behind.

Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee personified, Victor isn’t exactly the image that people would expect to come to mind when thinking of the sport. He’s muscled, yet slender and graceful, looking more like a model than anything else. But his footwork is mesmerizing and his punches always land when he wants them to, no matter how bad off he looks. He’s the near opposite of Yuuri, but still his goal; professionally, and well. Yuuri won’t deny he’s beautiful.

So it’s back to Detroit, back to New York, with Madison Square Garden still as his goal, with a sense that it’s not quite out of reach this time. He wins smaller matches--he remembers what it feels like to _win_ \--and gets a new high to chase. Victor is alongside him, loud and enthusiastic and sometimes selfish, but so is Yuuri; and then there are his gentler moments, promising to meet Yuuri in the middle, the wide smile that he can’t seem to shake when he’s looking at Yuuri after a few too many glasses of champagne, rough fingertips sliding gold rings onto rough fingers.

It’s no brass knuckle; if anything, it’s a sturdy, weathered shield.

There’s no Olympic goal for him here, and he still has so many peaks to conquer. Preparing to fight the young Russian Tiger that’s been mauling his way through the circuit is his fiercest competitor yet, aside from the prospect of fighting Victor himself. But as he takes off his ring, inspecting the tan line it’s left on his finger before putting his gloves on, he knows one thing for sure.

He doesn’t expect himself to lose this time.

But even if he does, it won’t be the end of the world.


	3. himukise hannibal AU, M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> himukise hannibal AU, ft aokise, aohimu, kagahimu

Aomine doesn’t have too much variety in his wardrobe. There are his sweats and t-shirts, his team jersey, the few tailored suits he owns. His sneaker collection, is something else in itself, but his closet is otherwise predictable.

Tonight, Aomine has dressed up by dressing _down,_ a smear of liver pâté on a slice of baguette, his innards just as creamy a brown as the rich tan of his skin. Paired with a white wine and glistening onion jam, Kise can only see red, blood boiling so hot in his veins it threatens to steam. Himuro’s smile is cool as ever as he gestures at the plate.

“Go on, dig in.”

“I know what this is,” Kise clutches at his fork, his voice spiking, eyes wild as he points the tines at Himuro. “This is payback. This is revenge for Kagamicchi.”

“Revenge is…” Himuro gestures slowly as he thinks, hands working an invisible pottery wheel until they steeple together upon conclusion. “Petty. _This_ is just.”

“Well, at least I gave you a generous portion,” Kise huffs. “It might be just, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be unfair.”

“God invented refrigerators for men like us,” Himuro smiles. “I never said this was the main course.”

He reaches and tilts Kise’s fork down with the tip of his finger, and Kise thinks about how easy it would be to shove his fork underneath Himuro’s fingernail, to take his steak knife and bury in the back of his hand. But it’s always a contest to see who reacts first between the two of them, and he supposes he lost by carving Kagami up last year. Himuro’s trap is well-baited, and Kise is neither a mouse nor rat, but he still is tempted by a fine cheese. Himuro lifts the bread to his mouth, making the meat glisten as he swipes a pink tongue over it. Kise mirrors him and bites down, the toast crunching definitively in his mouth.

There’s a question in the air, mingling with the low orchestral music Himuro loves to play that neither of them will address, until after dessert, their old-fashioneds diluted with chunks of melting ice. And that’s the question of who’s next, now that they’ve come to the finale, rolling down the slope of descending action, roughed up in each other’s arms. It’s not as grand as they first imagined it to be, but patience makes for a finer flavor, if anything.


	4. hikago pachinko AU, T/M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aged up characters, vaguely implied/imagined sex. hikago pachinko AU prompted [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10769170#cmt10769170)

Hikaru’s world is flashing neon and noisy animations, metal balls pinging off rods to net him jackpots that double and triple in size throughout the night, a third slot that threatens to send his head spinning along with its whirring characters, mentally crossed fingers and prayers under his breath to land upon a face that matches the duo already present on his screen. It sharpens his senses and sends him into mental overload, fingers twitching anxiously on the knob, debating how much muscle to put into a pull when he’s on a hot streak. But even so, his cheeks ache into the morning hours, a smile almost ever-present on his lips, thrilled at the prospect for more.

A ball drops into the catcher, and the familiar slots pop up again, landing one, two, and finally three matching images of a twin-tailed anime girl. Hikaru feels his heart rate ease up, and closes his eyes with a sigh, listening to the waterfall of the payout. He opens them again, winces at the overhead lights, takes a look at his watch. It’s a little past 2:00AM in the 24-hour parlor, on a Tuesday; he remembers he has a literature exam on Friday, and has already spent more than half of his food budget for the next two weeks (though with this payout, maybe not). But Sai’s face pops up in front of the time, even more familiar than that of his watch, puppy pout on his lips, and Hikaru laughs at himself for agreeing to Sai’s request before he starts to speak.

_Hikaru, one more game?_

_Yeah, okay._

“Shindou.” 

A hand falls on Hikaru’s shoulder, touch delicate yet firm, and he realizes that perhaps the most disorienting thing in playing pachinko are the moments when Akira Touya takes the time to speak to him. Hikaru nearly jumps, looks at the balls shining in his neighbor’s overflow trays, then up at him. Akira pauses for a second, lips parted as he lands upon the words, eyebrow raised politely with concern.

“Smoke break?”

They could smoke inside, and Hikaru’s tried, but multitasking has never been easy for him, ash falling onto his clothes, chomping down on the filter when he tries to focus. It’s nice to give his eyes a break, as much as the light pollution allows, anyway. The humidity is still present in the summer air; Hikaru tugs at the collar of his t-shirt. He takes Akira’s offered cigarette, palms the empty pocket of his shorts with a sigh, but Akira leans in with his lighter then, too, silver gleaming under the full moon.

Hikaru inhales; it’s lighter than what he’s ended up preferring lately, but it’ll do. He watches as Akira’s features are illuminated with a flare of orange, the night creating pleasant shadows along his cheekbones, hiding the faint discoloration under his eyes. He wonders when his touching Akira will extend beyond a jackpot-celebrating elbow bumping his shoulder, if he could convince Akira to come back to his tiny bed and the dirty laundry strewn about his dorm. It smells fine, and he could make them a decent breakfast in the morning, but it’s just like the possibility of surpassing Akira’s total for the night; imaginable, but not quite within his reach.


	5. iwaizumi/kasamatsu trio, T - E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a trio of iwaizumi/kasamatsu drabbles prompted [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11757289#cmt11757289)
> 
> rolling in the grass, just kiss me already, bites (nsfw)

Kasamatsu loves Kanagawa, the city, removed from the chaos of Tokyo, but bustling. But there's something about the atmosphere in Miyagi, quiet except for the hum of cicadas, the tinkling of bells on passing bicycles, that makes him wish he never moved away. It feels like home here, a warmth that seeps into his bones, and sure, there are some things about the city he misses. But he's graduated now, and he only has the summer before he heads back into the seemingly endless maze of skyscrapers and tourists. He plans to make the peace of the countryside last as long as it can. 

He's jogging through his old neighborhood, past the high school he nearly went to, different by a syllable and a character and miles away. The city can be overwhelming, but everything is in rich, vivid detail here, footprints encased in since-dried cement sidewalks, faded and new paint on houses, even the same stray cats (or ones that look similar enough) bringing up old memories he thought he had forgotten. His feet are moving, but he's still distracted, looking but not quite seeing the path in front of him, and he runs right into the bicep of a jogger heading in the opposite direction, knocking him out of his reverie.

“Shit,” He apologizes, stumbling back. “I didn't even see you, I'm so sorry--”

“Well,” laughs the jogger. “That's one way to greet me.”

Kasamatsu blinks, and there Iwaizumi is, grinning and pulling his headphones from his ears, tanned like it's the middle of August even though June has barely started. Sure, he had seen pictures on social media when he bothered to remember. But Iwaizumi is really taller now, broader now, only enhancing his quiet charm to what Kasamatsu is sure is a near lethal level. But all he can do is grin back. 

“Long time, Hajime.”

“Yeah, and I ought to give you some grief about it; you couldn't text me?”

“Sorry,” Kasamatsu apologizes again as Iwaizumi bumps his shoulder with his fist. “Wasn't sure if you had the same number.”

And then it's just like three years never passed between them, Kasamatsu joining Iwaizumi on his route; both of their sports were cardio-intense in middle school, and they used to jog together just like this. But they can keep with each other this time, and even jog a little faster now, the soles of their shoes pounding pavement, almost racing to the hill where they had chased each other around in the summertime, where they sledded together in winter as kids. Kasamatsu’s heart is pounding, too, not just from the physical effort, but from the thickness in Iwaizumi’s arms, the way crinkles form at the corners of his eyes when he smiles wide. It's a crush he tried to squash at the end of middle school, but right now it's a burst dam, the water washing over him in waves, and even though he should call from help, well, he can't deny that it feels so damn refreshing.

He collapses to the grass, still cool and dewy on his skin, though the sun is rising higher. Iwaizumi leans over him, blocking it out with his body, eyes half-lidded. Their chests are both heaving, aching for breaths, and Kasamatsu pulls him in. Iwaizumi’s lips are chapped and warm, a perfect substitute for oxygen.

***

“Iwa-chan, did you see? There's a basketball tournament going on in the other set of gyms in this facility! Maybe your boyfriend will be playing!”

“Can it, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi hisses through his teeth, slowly burying his fist into his friend's side. “He's not my boyfriend.”

They had met after a game at a school in Kanagawa, where Kunimi and Kindaichi wouldn't stop talking about some star on the basketball team, rumored to be scouted by the NBA even though he was just a first year. Oikawa was intrigued, and there wasn't anything else for Iwaizumi to do, so the whole team went along to watch.

The audience was a pretty healthy size for a practice match, mostly girls, from what Iwaizumi bothered to remember. He could only assume that the NBA guy was the blond one, with the height and the flashy moves. But while that was fun to watch for a while, Iwaizumi kept finding himself drawn to the captain in blue, not knowing much about the sport himself, but being clearly able to see that he was guiding his team and making plays. He had called up to Seijou after the game--he had a friend on the volleyball team, and wanted to know the result. Oikawa inquired about the basketball team’s ace, with his penchant for pestering young talent, and somehow they had gotten to talking strategy outside the gym, swapping numbers and training plans.

The past few months have been tame, with texts about diet plans and school and how to help each other improve their verticals. Iwaizumi isn't much of a selfie guy; neither is Kasamatsu. They’ve talked on the phone, too, where the words flow better both of them. Iwaizumi likes listening to Kasamatsu go on about his sport, not quite understanding all the terminology, but smiling over the inflections that have become familiar in his gravelly voice.

They talk about their aces, moody and over the top, but still so damn talented. Kasamatsu complains about the girls that surround Kise. Iwaizumi jokes that some of them ought to notice him instead, and he swears Kasamatsu nearly chokes on his response.

And then they sometimes talk about each other, in softer voices later at night, when Iwaizumi has the lights turned off, about train tickets and touching each other, and that's becoming more common, but still infrequent enough that Iwaizumi can almost convince himself he's dreamed it, and he's okay with that. 

Sure, he had thought about texting Kasamatsu when he found out Seijou was going to Tokyo. But he figured it would be a long shot.

But then he sees that familiar shade of blue walking around, and he can't stop his feet from moving. It's just his teammate; he doesn't know where Kasamatsu is, but hell, Iwaizumi has time to look before Seijou has to even begin thinking about warming up. He walks around some more, checks outside to be thorough; and then he finds Kasamatsu standing near Seijou’s own locker room on his way back.

“Oh.” Iwaizumi opens and closes his mouth, at a loss for what to say. “Hey.”

“I saw your school’s name on the board out front,” smiles Kasamatsu. “Hey.”

Kasamatsu’s game is at halftime--he still has time before he has to head back. They end up walking around together, looping back to Kasamatsu’s locker room saying much between them. Iwaizumi shoves his hands in his pockets out of habit, but then he sees Kasamatsu’s empty hands swinging with his walk at his sides, and he regrets it. 

“Well,” Iwaizumi rocks on the balls of his feet for a second. “Good luck.”

Kasamatsu takes a breath, lips parted as he thinks about something. Then, he steps forward, gripping Iwaizumi’s shirt and bridging the ever so slight height difference between them with a kiss. He smiles against Iwaizumi’s mouth, an electric hum running through him.

“You better win.”

***

Kasamatsu stands in front of the bathroom mirror in nothing but his underwear, carefully groping at his own chest. He never touches himself like this, not even when he masturbates, but right now, he’s fascinated by it, the patches of purple and red that color his neck like splattered paint, the score of a bite mark that stands in stark contrast against his skin, his nipple in the center of it. The bruises sting a little when he presses into them, but with a light enough touch, he can make himself shiver, a hitch in his breath as it escapes his throat.

Iwaizumi’s bare feet smack quietly on the tile, and he slips his arms around Kasamatsu’s waist, Kasamatsu’s hands falling to cover and tangle with his. He presses his nose into Kasamatsu’s hair, inhaling the musk of last night’s sex and what remains of day-old cologne, breath spilling out over the shell of Kasamatsu’s ear. Kasamatsu leans back into him, leaning his head so Iwaizumi can lap at his neck, licking and kissing and covering him in warmth. Iwaizumi’s fingers draw over the fabric of Kasamatsu’s boxers, stretching and sliding past his waistband, forming a loose fist around Kasamatsu’s flaccid cock. Kasamatsu closes his eyes, thinks about the smears of color he saw marking Iwaizumi’s inner thighs. He sighs and rocks his hips into Iwaizumi’s palm, heat rising in the depth of his stomach, pink blooming over his cheeks. He feels Iwaizumi’s finger on his mouth, toying with his bottom lip, and Kasamatsu takes him in, teeth dragging over his skin.

Iwaizumi’s cock twitches against his ass. Kasamatsu can feel himself getting hard; the friction is pleasant, though it’s starting to verge on the unpleasant side of dry--he knows they have lube back in the bedroom, and he’s pretty sure they have a flavored kind in one of the cabinets here, too. Vanilla, he remembers, and not too overpowering; if he wanted to have food, he’d get up and leave the bedroom.

He twists himself out of Iwaizumi’s arms long enough to squat down and search for the bottle in the cabinet below the sink, Iwaizumi slipping his hands under his armpits and pulling him back up. Kasamatsu loops his arms around Iwaizumi’s neck, and the little twitch of Iwaizumi’s nose as he bends his knees makes him grin; he’s happy to know he’s feeling the effects of last night. 

Iwaizumi hoists him up, carrying Kasamatsu back to bed and dumping him somewhat ceremoniously on top of the rumpled sheets, kicking off his boxers, then pulling Kasamatsu’s off his legs, tossing them elsewhere. He holds Kasamatsu’s leg nearly perpendicular to the floor, sucking at his ankle and kissing down his calf to the crook of his knee, where he leans in, sticking his tongue out. Kasamatsu squeezes a liberal dollop onto his tongue--the color only makes his cock throb in want, but Iwaizumi wastes no time, his lips on the head of Kasamatsu’s cock. He kisses down his shaft, then back up, then down, down, down again, hands under Kasamatsu’s ass to keep him aloft.


	6. aokise gore/horror drabbles, E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a trio of aokise horror drabbles prompted [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12145385#cmt12145385)
> 
> you always laugh at fires (camping trip)  
> i don't know how to fill this chest cavity (florist AU)  
> the ocean’s not a cocktail (mexico vacation)

Kise feels like he’s on the brink of hyperventilation. 

His lungs have been hiccuping his breaths in and out, keeping him alive but never quite getting a sufficient grasp on oxygen, a rhythm like the short, quick thrusts of Aomine’s cock when he’s followed Kise inside a dressing room at the mall and he doesn’t have enough tact to keep one of the employees from noticing and the door is about to bust open on them any second now. It’s a cheap thrill, but one Kise likes to chase, and well, he can’t say he’s entirely opposed to the thought of getting caught.

That thrill has magnified tenfold now, his body shuddering and cold with sweat, struggling to keep himself sitting upright, his vision nearly going black and struggling to focus when it doesn’t, circles of shaky bokeh coloring the world around him. It’s getting dark out, the sun below the horizon but the sky still cast in blue. He doesn’t have the energy to keep his head up, but he can will his eyelids to open if he can bear the sight of a white flannel tied around his thigh, blood seeping into the thick fabric, just a stump of a leg with no limb existing beyond it. 

His eyes slide to Aomine, sitting in front of the campfire holding Kise’s tibia caveman-like in his hand, just enough flesh carved away so he could get a better grip on him. The most of the rest of Kise’s leg is being licked at and charred by flame, knee bent, as if gravity might force the rest of his flesh to slough off into the fire. His face is lit up orange, his elbow resting on his knee, leaning his cheek against his fist, sighing, bored as he waits for his dinner to cook. Kise slumps forward, hitting the ground as he starts to seize, and Aomine clicks his tongue, carefully resting the end of the bone on a piece of firewood before standing up.

“Now now, Kise,” He coos, hands firm under Kise’s armpits as he sits him back up on the log. Kise’s head lolls back, golden irises barely crescent moons in the exposed whites of his eyes, spittle and vomit threatening to rise and dribble out of his mouth. Aomine’s fingers tip his jaw back, making him swallow, but he coughs it up again, heaving mostly onto himself and the fabric of Aomine’s puffy vest. Aomine smoothes his hair, presses a kiss to his cheek.

“I know you’re tired, but it’s not healthy to skip dinner. Just wait till you see what we’re having for dessert.”

***

No one in Aomine’s life, let alone himself, thought he would be suited to floristry. Rough hands and thick fingers, fumbling with stems and paper-thin petals, meant for broad strokes, not precision. Not much an eye for detail, really, at least at first glance, or a brain that could handle the money management skills required to deal with the store he inherited from his late aunt, who had no children of her own.

But the callouses on his fingers keep him from getting pricked when he clips roses of their thorns, and it’s quiet here on the island, not so silent that it irritates him, but with the pleasantries of locals and birds chirping in the morning, a radio communicating on a hushed frequency instead of the city’s blaring rush hour broadcast. The fishermen stop in, feeling less emasculated to get something pretty for their wives while they can shoot the shit about sports with Aomine--how the local high school baseball team is on the path to Koshien, how the cyclists nearly mow them down when they’re heading out to the docks in the morning--and he’s more than happy to oblige. No bouquet is free, of course, but the wives that stop in to thank him later are a healthy tip on top of the cash, skinny things who keep their skin pale in the summer thanks to their vibrant parasols, and complimenting isn’t the only thing their mouths can do. 

They must get lonely, after all, when their husbands spend so much time away from home.

There are weddings and funerals, nervous teenage boys with condoms in their wallets asking for single red roses. There are calls from galleries near and far, inquiring about his arrangements, abstractions of color almost grotesque in how they clash, but still gathering attention when posted to his social media page. Dried petals folded into origami cranes and other shapes, delighting the grannies when they stop by his booth at the local farmer’s market.

He’s got a supplier that keeps him well stocked, but he’s built his own greenhouse in his backyard, tending to herbs and tomatoes and rarer strands of blooms that would be too pricey to order in bulk. His recent favorite is among the planters he has suspended from above, a handsome one with sun-bleached hair, teeth starting to show through transparent skin. Aomine fought off the bloat the best he could, hewing the body into two below his ribcage. He mulched the legs in his wood chipper, potting them with soil--he couldn’t bear to put the cock and balls in with them at first, but they’re tucked down somewhere in the dirt now, brown speckled with dots of white fertilizer, a ceramic container eagerly awaiting the tissues that melt away and fall down to be swallowed up and mixed in. 

The flies made their way in, inevitably, as all insects do. But he’s managed to keep them at bay for now, whittling stems to sharp points and threading flowers between his ribs, helping drain him of what little blood remains, cautious bees flitting around until the petals wilt away. He inserts a white chrysanthemum in front of where his heart would be, next to a brother stained with pink. The corpse’s eyelashes are still long and dark, eyes closed as if he has yet to wake from a serene sleep. Aomine smiles, his thumb brushing over a sunken cheek. 

***

The ocean stretches out in front ot Kise under a cloudless sky, waters so clear and saturated he’s halfway convinced he’s chanced upon an endless sea of blue curaçao. The sand on the beach is near white; the sun is bright enough on its own, but with the reflected light, he has to keep his aviator shades on, the insides of his eyelids still illuminated pink even when he has his eyes closed. 

The beach is relatively devoid of tourists and locals alike; they set up an umbrella with towels and their rest of their stuff further up from the shoreline, but decided to bring their twelve-dollar margaritas down with them to the water, extra-large plastic goblets stuck in the sand.

He’s got his head in Aomine’s lap, damp trunks offering a hint of relief from the heat as they cool the back of his head. If he opens his eyes for a moment, he can look up at Aomine and let his gaze fall over his abs and shoulders and chest, the once stark tan lines from his loose tank tops merging seamlessly into a further bronzed color of his skin, grains of sand still clinging stubbornly to his sides and his forearms as he sits himself up on his elbows. The tide laps at Kise’s ankles, the rhythm of the surf and the heat threatening to drag him down into a deep sleep; he feels woozy with diluted alcohol, and mutes the voice in his mind that’s telling him to resist. Aomine’s fingers comb through his hair, massaging his scalp, and that’s even more incentive to give in.

Kise isn’t sure how much time has passed when he wakes up again, but the scene doesn’t seem to have changed. The sun is still above them; the only thing he has the measure in the volume of alcohol in Aomine’s cup, which has dropped almost down to nothing. (His, however, is still full of lime green liquid; a welcome surprise, considering how greedy Aomine can get about these things.) He groans and slides his sunglasses up into his hair, burying his face in Aomine’s lap, takes a second to consider if he should work Aomine’s cock out of his waistband and blow him right here on the beach; there’s not much else to do. His lips find a flaccid Aomine absentmindedly, kissing him through the fabric as he turns the thought over in his brain. Then, he looks up with a pout, reaching for his cup.

“Aominecchi-i,” Kise whines, drawing out the syllables. “I’m thirsty.”

“So?” Aomine indicates Kise’s cup with his hand. “Drink up.”

“I want water,” Kise sticks his lip out further, nursing his drink. “Can you go get me one?”

Aomine glances back at their towels laid out, frowning.

“You’re the one on top of me,” He jostles his leg underneath Kise. “Go get one yourself, and bring one back for me, too.”

“Please?”

Aomine sighs, exhaling loud and slow as he rolls his eyes. He leans forward into the surf, and pulls back with his cup, once empty, now halfway filled, with seawater. Kise watches the specks of sand swirl around in it, and wrinkles his nose.

“Look; water.”

Kise sticks out his tongue, but Aomine presses the salt-lined rim to his lips. He inhales, exhales, closes his eyes. The scent of salt stings in his nose, but Aomine still tilts the cup, and Kise swallows, briny water burning all the way down until it comes back him, Kise retching into the sand. He whimpers, tears forming in his eyes, but his hands cover Aomine’s as he brings the cup in one more time


	7. oikage evangelion AU, M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oikage evangelion AU prompted [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11619305#cmt11619305)...if you want oikawa to be kaworu you can turn around here lol

_Pathetic._

The word echoes in Kageyama’s mind over and over, whispers and sneers and shouts of it, all in the same voice, one that makes him want to wince and curl up when he hears it, but it's familiar all the same.

Kageyama _is_ pathetic. He can't stop the Angels, not now; there's a red light spinning in this darkened corridor, a siren’s screams falling deaf upon his ears. He palms the Walkman in his back pocket; at least he can listen to that one cassette, tape worn and faded, when the world starts to melt away.

There is one sound that he hears in the quiet he's created, the sound of bare feet on floor. Kageyama turns, and there is Oikawa in his hospital gown, scrunched up nose, seething, brown hair alight like embers. He sprints at Kageyama, and Kageyama knows he doesn't have the will to dodge it, nor does he deserve to, if he did. Oikawa tackles him, and his skull hits concrete, the chaos around Kageyama blasting full force into his eardrums again. Oikawa’s hands close around his throat, and Kageyama’s fingertips graze his wrists.

_“DON'T TOUCH ME!”_ Oikawa shrieks, squeezing tighter, and Kageyama’s hands fall limp. His hands aren't clean. Water couldn't wash away Iwaizumi’s blood, so he tried something else--and that only made him more filthy.

“Oikawa, I--”

“Don't talk to me,” sneers Oikawa, eyes wild with fury. Kageyama’s gaze lands on the blood beading up, trickling down his arms, from where he had torn out the IVs. “You don't deserve to talk to me.”

“I deserve to pilot the Eva,” Oikawa says, voice softer, almost a sob. “I want to pilot Unit 02. At least I'm good at it!”

Kageyama hears his name being called, frantic voices on the comms summoning him to the docks. He looks away from the tears in Oikawa’s eyes. One of them is a seed, carried away by the wind from the watermelon patch. But he's not sure who.

“I don't know.” Oikawa shakes his head, resigning himself to grief, blinking and unstable. “I don't why they chose you.”

Oikawa loosens his hold, his spit splashing warm across Kageyama’s nose. Kageyama almost wants to grab at his gown, to hold him close, to keep the weight from being lifted, from disappearing off into the unknown.

Maybe if he tried it, Oikawa would stay.

Maybe there's a part of him that doesn't want to be stubborn anymore.


	8. aohimu hockey AU, M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aohimu centuries lyrics prompted [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=11889641#cmt11889641)

It starts like all hockey fights do; in slow motion, with Tatsuya sending a slapshot just above the goalie’s shoulder into the back of the net. The crowd roars in place of the familiar blare of the horn--it's an away game at Chicago for the Kings--but as Tatsuya raises his leg up into a celly, Daiki Aomine is still heading towards him, catching the skate on ice with a slew foot. It sends Tatsuya flying, the crack of his helmet on ice echoing like a puck on iron.

Daiki isn't known as a dirty player; he and Tatsuya have been known to antagonize each other on ice, enough to make up a decent highlight reel, squared up and circling each other like sharks even though neither of them are from San Jose. It's not born from ill will--they’ve always traded compliments about each other's play in interviews postgame--it's part of the fun. 

This time, it's an error gone wrong. Tatsuya’s vision goes white. He takes a moment before he pops back up, his bucket clattering to the ice, experiencing a moment of lucidity where he watches Aomine’s grin fade, his eyes going wide--and then Tatsuya feels like his bones have liquefied, collapsing in a pile. He doesn't remember much after that, a vague memory of being helped off the ice, but the details are too loud, too vibrant to comprehend. Daiki doesn't feel much at first, aside from the hard bench of the penalty box beneath him. But they're the network's golden boys, and it doesn't take long until the nation is watching him break down on primetime TV, his face in his palms, tears streaking down his cheeks.

He learns they've got Tatsuya at Northwestern, and by the time the game gets out, he knows the traffic will be too bad to get there within regular visiting hours. But if there's one okay thing about concussing his boyfriend--even if it he can barely stomach it--it’s that Tatsuya will be there for another day or two, and if the team staff isn't swarming, maybe he'll get to steal some time with him. 

Daiki sends a text, but he doesn't call; Tatsuya's phone is probably full of condolences and well wishes, and if the battery hasn't died, he probably has been told to stay away from it for now. He gets to the hospital later in the afternoon, when Tatsuya's room is mercifully free of hospital and residual Kings staff. Tatsuya smiles a little when he sees Daiki, raising his hand in a half wave.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Daiki sinks into the chair by Tatsuya's bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored. Tired.” Tatsuya narrows his eye, lip twitching as he still smiles. “Pissed.”

“Tatsuya, I'm so sorry,” Daiki looks up at the ceiling, wiping at his cheek. “It was just meant to be a hip check, but I was going too fast, and--”

“You shouldn't have come here if you were expecting me to forgive you.”

“I know,” Daiki sighs, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “I don't expect you to. It's just--I missed you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tatsuya exhales and closes his eye. “If it had happened at another game, I doubt they would have cleared me to come visit you.”

He drums his fingers on the mattress, expectant, and Daiki is more than eager to get up, perching on the bed. His fingers tangle with Tatsuya's, bringing his knuckles to his lips.

“It could be worse--I'll be more bitter when you deliver the career-ending one, “ Tatsuya smiles, and Daiki laughs, weakly in return. “I doubt I'll be back by Thanksgiving. Christmas for sure. And when I come back, I'll wreck you.”

“Good,” Daiki smiles a little wider, “I deserve it.”

“Well,” Tatsuya hums, pulling Daiki in for a kiss. “I’ve always loved putting my bruises on you.”


	9. garciraki, bra hook, E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> garciraki prompted [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12416745#cmt12416745)

Masako has Alex sitting in her lap in bed on a humid Thursday night, the draft playing on low volume on the TV in front of them. They rarely turn the air conditioning on until right before bed; Alex likes to soak in the Los Angeles heat, even when the temperature makes her hair start to frizz up, notes of her 6am perfume still lingering on her skin. Masako can at least convince her to turn on the overhead fan as a reprieve, but that's mostly all she needs; Akita was pleasant during the summer, but she grew up in Tokyo. Dog days are nostalgic for her. 

Alex has a chilled bottle of beer in hand; she never uses coasters on the bedside table, and Masako has yet to buy into the idea that rings add character. Masako has her arms around Alex's waist; ever so often, she reach up and wipe at the bottle, massaging the cool condensation back into Alex's skin, just under the thin elastic of her waistband. She can't see Alex's face from this vantage point, but she can imagine it so easily, the little furrow she gets in her brow when she concentrates disappearing, right hand perched on the trackpad of her laptop relaxing with a soft sigh.

Masako doesn't mean to distract with her little touches and the kisses she places over Alex's shoulders and the back of her neck; she loves listening to Alex's murmured analyses, how unnecessary it is for the Heat to draft another shooting guard, how quickly (or not) the Bulls’ picks will climb out of the development league to join Kagami on the starting team, how the draft stock of Himuro and his teammate will rise over the next two years because of the rarity, rather than the presence, of USC alumni here. She prefers to follow the CBA, but beyond theorizing about future Worlds and Olympic matchups, it's nice to lose herself in the sound of Alex's voice.

Alex _has_ successfully distracted Masako when she's tried to watch events like these, and even if it wasn't on purpose, Masako supposes this is only fair, unhooking Alex's bra and letting the straps go limp. She runs her fingers over the faint patterns the lace left on Alex's skin (Alex had time to change after work; she would've sweated the day out in something mismatched, not lingerie), and with the way she halfheartedly protests, letting the bra fall down her arms and to the bed, Masako can't help but think she planned this. She sweeps Alex's hair to one side, kissing with a little more force and focus at her neck, and cups Alex's breasts, closing her eyes at the way Alex relaxes back against her, covering Masako’s hand with her own. 

So much of Alex is familiar by touch; the texture of stretch marks enhanced by a lifetime so far of professional and still not-quite-so-casual play of sports, the slightly uneven circles of her nipples, the pebbly feeling of the tissue underneath. The natural folds of her skin, but how her abdominal muscles are still firm underneath. Masako slips her hand into Alex's underwear--if so little of a thong could even be called that--and Alex is already warm and wet, lifting her hips to meet Masako’s touch. Masako rubs at her clit, fingers going slow, enough that it almost retreats, Alex squirming and whimpering atop her. But then she finally comes, her head lolling onto Masako’s shoulder, a quiet noise followed by deeper breaths. 

They had tuned the broadcast out; a post-event analysis is playing now. Alex turns around, cheeks flushed and smiling, looping her arms around Masako’s neck. The beer bottle grazes Masako’s skin; it's still cold, sending a shiver down her back.


	10. himukise christian persecution in 16th century japan, M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=12879173#cmt12879173), the martyrs of nagasaki were a really interesting wiki read!

In the year fifteen-hundred and ninety-six, Kise is a lower-ranking leader of the shogunate placed in and around Nagasaki, though not the lowest. Whispers of an assassination hold promise of a promotion; if it has been organized by him, he cannot say. It is not a deadly blow, not a wound that stay exposed and go green with infection. The poison is already present; he is simply the antidote.

Kise has been spending more time in the city, to lock eyes with a man who will soon be a corpse. There is smoke on the wind of Nagasaki, of incense, of midnight oil kept burning while leaders stay up strategizing, flames bending in vision that blurs with the pull of sleep. Of ashes prepared for urns, for the ill and the elderly and one particular snake in the grass--Kise has the scent of his pyre in his nostrils already, and oh, is it sweet.

But there is another smoke, black and twisting, blown by the wind into the eyes of the Buddha and the _kami_ , that threatens to topple this orchestrated act. Blood will be spilled soon; it remains to be seen whether it will be more than the expected amount.

The hierarchy is diffuse at times, but not so much that Kise cannot recognize intruders when they are present--and he is not talking about betrayal.

They came before he was brought into this world, men from a faraway land with different eyes and different tongues, talking of a god. Just one god, not for one ruler or one region, but for all people, that have and will ever exist. These men were not suppressed by the shogunate; not endorsed, either, but allowed to tell their stories. Some converted. Their numbers grew.

Kise is not a man who desires the approval of a god; he prays little to the gods he knows, desiring to make a mark on mankind instead. The following of these foreigners is growing, and maybe his political inexperience is showing when he wonders why the shogunate talks of these men with malice now. But this is not just a matter of politics and natural order for Kise; he has his own bias beyond those things.

He met first Himuro a few years back, when they were wandering swordsmen, looking to be bodyguards or work other odd jobs. Paranoia could be easily created in the minds of men hoping to become noble; Himuro was particularly known for his silver tongue, and for his ability to cut down threats when they did exist, wielding his blade with practicality and grace. Those who survived his attacks say they never saw it coming; those who didn't would certainly say the same. 

Kise was always a bit more showy; it put a target on his back, but also, an opportunity for more power. The shogunate is slow and bureaucratic; Himuro could spend hours training with his sword, but he doesn't have the patience for something like this. Kise is starting to doubt he has it in himself, but unlike Himuro, he is not tempted towards revolution.

He sees Himuro more sparsely now, in the blouses and the trousers of the foreigners instead of familiar kimono, sword no longer hanging at his side. When they make eye contact, Himuro is never the first to look away.

Himuro seeks him out on occasion though, lounging in Kise's quarters when he returns from meetings in the evenings, basking in the moonlight from the open sliding door. He lets Kise pour him sake, but never drinks; he gently pushes Kise's hand away when he places it upon his cheek.

“One man and another, Ryouta,” He smiles one evening, looking at Kise with something like pity in his eye. “It's not what God ordains.”

“It's not what the shogunate ordains, either,” Kise lifts his chin a little as he regards Himuro with a frown. “But you didn't seem to have a problem with it then.”

“I was a simple man, then. I know better now.”

“I don't understand, Tatsuya; you were a man who wanted to shape the future with his own hands. What could have possibly changed?”

“What _changed?_ ” Tatsuya laughs, a sharp noise in the empty chamber, thrusting a hand into his hair.

“Only the one thing that needed to change; I can see again, Ryouta.”

Kise can't deny it; for an instant, there is hope. But half of Himuro’s face is still mottled with scars. What opens of his eyelid shows a pupil dead in its socket.

“Tatsuya,” Kise's voice is barely above a whisper. “You're delusional.”

“My one eye is enough for this life,” Tatsuya lets his hair fall again, still smiling. “I have seen what awaits me in His kingdom.”

“You should go, Tatsuya,” Kise insists, more urgent now. “The things my superiors talk about--I am powerless to stop them.”

“Are you?” inquires Tatsuya, “Or will you simply not take action against them?”

Kise inhales. He lowers his head.

“I'm just trying to help you, while I still can.”

“Will you bury the dagger in my back, when the time comes?”

“You're still a man of honor,” Kise says after a moment, meeting Himuro’s eyes. “I will bury it in your stomach.”

Himuro grins; not his polite, pleasant smile, but the expression that, even now, makes him look like a demon. His fingers curl around the sake cup, and he lifts it in a toast.

“May God absolve us of our sins.”


	11. jj/otabek baseball AU, T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=13207365)

New York, thinks J.J., is a terrible place to live.

He knows it’s the homesickness taking root, snug and familiar as a grandmother-knitted sweater, but not nearly as warm. It’s a battle he had to fight when he was traded from the mountain-spiked vistas of Colorado to the under-funded infrastructure of Detroit, and before that, when Colorado was vast and untameable compared to the well-walked streets of his hometown in Quebec. 

He should be grateful--city-wise, this is undoubtedly a step up from Detroit, and the Yankees are known around the world--but it just feels like betrayal. Getting drafted as the number one pick, then getting traded from his rookie team to an unfamiliar one, and then to an unfamiliar one after that--it all feels like no one has faith in him and his abilities. The length of his contract could be reassuring--four years, his longest yet--but it hasn’t set in yet. The streets are dirty with days-old slush, and even if he’s still up north, it’s not the one he had come to expect.

There’s too much to fixate on; finding new favorite restaurants, making friends, finding a new therapist and building that relationship back up again so he can vent about all these little things in hopes that they won’t paralyze him; it’s enough to make him stop in the middle of a crosswalk, the abyss of the asphalt between white lines threatening to swallow him whole if he takes a wrong step. Usually he feels at home in intersections--right between second and third, that’s when he’s most comfortable--but not here.

“Jean,” A voice drifts into his ear. “Keep breathing.”

J.J.’s eyes snap to the source. Just a few inches shorter than him (and one of the shortest in the MLB; he half-expects the Astros to snatch him up for a five-foot-six hat trick), Otabek is a prospective catcher for the Yankees. Quiet, but they were in the same draft class, and okay company at spring training; at least J.J. has him to confide in.

“I’m--” J.J. swallows, the words thick in his throat. _I’m trying._

“You’ll be okay,” Otabek tells him, his hand firm on J.J.’s back as J.J. walks across the rest of the street. “It’s just for a few more weeks.”

Just a few more weeks; finishing up the paperwork for his contract and waiting out the offseason until they’re both shipped off to Scranton; for all of J.J.’s confidence, he still has muscle to build in the minors first. He just hopes all of his four years won’t be spent there.

“Right,” exhales J.J., a little pale, eyes wide underneath his aviators. “Thanks.”

Otabek nods; his hand stays on J.J., applying gentle pressure through the thick fabric of his peacoat as they walk back to his apartment.


	12. furumiyu oral sex w/ ftm miyuki, E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=13025861#cmt13025861)

Miyuki isn’t quite sure how to describe his connection with Furuya. Furuya, who is quiet but persistent, whose pitches Miyuki will catch, but only for something else in return.

Furuya is tall enough for a first year, likely to only get taller throughout high school. Miyuki can see the muscles in his back shift under his UnderArmor during practice, and, well, Miyuki is pretty damn proud of his own thighs and the amount of weight he can squat. But the seams on Furuya’s compression shorts leftover from middle school look like they’re going to burst any day now when he pulls them on in the locker room.

He looks like a pretty straightlaced kid most of the time, looking bored during practice, even. Maybe too uptight for what Miyuki has in mind--which he could work around--but that perception is far from their reality.

It is Furuya who (after Miyuki lets his hand rest on his ass for a few seconds longer than what is acceptably sportsmanlike) passes his fingers over the hard plastic of Miyuki’s cup in the corner of the dugout, staring straight out at the diamond like the movement was unintentional. It is Furuya who practices his windup, one, two, more times than necessary before letting a pitch go, intoning something about wanting to study Miyuki’s signs, but conscious of the way Miyuki’s eyes cling to the curve of his ass and thighs, pressing up against Miyuki when they’re both wrangled into helping put equipment away after practice, lips soft on Miyuki’s, fingers rough from gripping seams trailing along his cheekbone.

Miyuki knows what he wants. But it’s even nicer to know when he’s wanted in turn.

They end up in his dorm, Miyuki on his back, Furuya pulling down Miyuki’s boxers, not quite pausing when he does. They hadn’t really discussed this; Miyuki keeps himself well-groomed, his happy trail easy to follow from belly-button down. Legs spread, Furuya’s hands slow as they travel up his thighs; there’s a focus burning in his eyes as he places a kiss against the inside of his knee.

“Is there anywhere I shouldn’t touch?” Miyuki grins a little, pushing the hem of his shirt up his abs to show a sliver of the fabric of his binder.

“This is where your hands stop.”

Furuya nods. Brat still looks like he’s halfway interested in taking a nap, but he dives in despite it, wasting no time on any further semblance to get his mouth on Miyuki, swiping his tongue up his labia.

“Fuck,” exhales Miyuki, heel pressing into the top of Furuya’s spine. Furuya laps at him, kissing at his clit. His hands shift, grabbing at Miyuki’s ass to prop him up, and something serene sneaks into his expression as he closes his eyes, pushing his tongue inside Miyuki. This isn’t the stoic Furuya Miyuki expected--and thank god for that.

“You haven’t done this before, right?”

Furuya looks up at Miyuki; for all his similar expressions, his sarcasm is a easy giveaway, and it makes Miyuki cackle. The faint hum, a just perceptible vibration of Furuya’s lips against him, is more than worth it. It’s no marathon, but it’s no sprint, either; Furuya alternates kisses with gentle bites at his inner thighs, sucking and letting his teeth graze his engorged labia. Miyuki’s fingers thread into his hair, mussing smooth locks up and keeping him close, though it’s not as if Furuya is about to pull away.

Miyuki comes with a small moan, panting, his thighs starting to quiver when Furuya keeps toying with his clit. Furuya does pull away then, lips and chin glistening; god, even the tip of his nose is shiny and wet. He sits up, and Miyuki does the same, pulling Furuya in to kiss at his swollen lips.


	13. momoalex infidelity, E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22341.html?thread=13404485#cmt13404485)

From the moment Alex proposed to Satsuki, the two of them began running an unspoken marathon, a competition to see which one of them would break first.

Alex is surprised it wasn't her.

But if she had cheated first, that might have hurt worse.

She had found Satsuki on the phone in bed, a dildo between her legs (the glittery one Alex bought her one Valentine’s Day, when they were still girlfriends), a man’s voice on the other end, loud enough for Alex to hear while Satsuki scrambled to hang up, before she walked out and slammed the door. She supposes it's easier this way, no footfalls of a stranger echoing in her home, no sullied bedsheets to clean. And she knows it's not a hotline this time; _that_ time, Satsuki had laughed and blushed, motioned her into bed, the sultry voice going deadpan to say the call would cost extra when Alex chirped in. Now, the afterimage of Satsuki going pale won't leave Alex's mind, the ‘o’ of her mouth twisting into something like regret, or pity, eyes misting in apology. Satsuki’s always cried the fattest tears, rolling down her cheeks like frames from an anime.

It stings, the thought that she wasn't enough for Satsuki. But underneath that, she feels something like relief. She doesn't have to try to fit their mismatched puzzle pieces back in place, no legwork, no pretending like they have to fix all the little fractures that have morphed into a visible break. And when Satsuki tries, Alex has a pretty good idea of what she'll say.

Alex is curled up in a corner of the couch. Satsuki is standing across from her, the coffee table between them, the cuffs of her sweater pulled over her hands, hiding the tan line of her engagement ring.

“How many times have you done this with him?”

“This is the fifth,” Satsuki sniffs. Alex stares ahead, memorizing every stitch on the pillow’s top seam.

“Have you done it in person?”

God, it's so easy to imagine the way Satsuki’s lower lip trembles.

“Yes.”

Alex closes her eyes, pushing her glasses up as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Okay.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know,” Alex sighs, her head lolling back onto the pillow. She stares at the ceiling.

“We keep putting the wedding off, Satsuki.”

“I know--I know we do, but we can still--”

“I've thought about cheating on you, you know.” Alex interrupts, feeling the tension in the air pull taut.

“...Did you?” 

Alex finally looks at Satsuki, her voice going soft in anticipation of the sobs to follow.

“No.”


	14. furumiyu developing relationship, G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “And then my soul saw you and it kind of went “Oh there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Furuya comes into Miyuki’s life with neither swiftness nor grace; there is simply an absence, then a presence, approaching Miyuki at the dinner table one spring evening.

He's no hand-wringing first year who asks the question with a wince; he's not a wannabe ace demanding that Miyuki catch his pitches. It's not even a demand. It's a statement delivered with finality, ended with a period, a fact.

Of course Miyuki tells him no. Where would the fun be in saying yes?

Furuya is someone who looks unimpressed by the very aspect of life itself. Not that he's _depressed_ by living; he just looks bored by it, like a salaryman going through the motions of the same job he's been working for the past ten years. He gets average grades. His broad shoulders bump his classmates in crowded hallways, and while he doesn’t intend to be rude, he doesn't apologize. When it comes to baseball, Furuya’s face doesn't change, but there's a spark in his eyes. It isn't a flame aching to be doused in gasoline; it's unfazed by the strongest breeze. It regards Miyuki as an equal, and only then does Miyuki change his mind.

Some might call Furuya’s pitches powerful, or dynamic. Miyuki is of a different opinion; Furuya’s pitches simply _exist._ Sure, there are adjectives he would be tempted to associate with Furuya’s pitches, if Furuya bothered to own them with any flair. He just knows that the delivery into his mitt is guaranteed. That’s enough for Miyuki.

After a while, something changes in Furuya, just visible enough on the periphery for Miyuki to notice. It's the feeling of contentment, not a flimsy layer, but a faint aura of it, a soft glow to his skin that wasn’t there before, different from the depth that hours out in the summer sun has given him. It’s in the relaxed parting of his lips, no longer putting in the effort to keep them together in a vague frown. He doesn’t make much eye contact with Miyuki, or anybody, when he’s not on the mound, but his mouth twitches upward in a smile sometimes, briefly, when watching tape or some unseen nature documentary. How he fits in Miyuki’s arms when they’re spooning together on a cramped dorm room bed, legs tucked up so his feet don’t dangle over the edge, a solid weight, but not one that has to be carried. 

There’s still a lot Miyuki has yet to learn about Furuya, and plenty for Furuya to learn about him. But what they have now, what is growing between them, feels sturdy, like the seams holding a ball together.


	15. kagesuga resolving jealousy, G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt:
> 
> Last year I abstained  
> this year I devour
> 
> without guilt  
> which is also an art
> 
> -Margaret Atwood, from circe/mud poems

Koushi has been told that he is a patient, kind person, and to an extent, he agrees with this. He likes to be a source of comfort for others, to cheerlead them to greatness, or even mediocrity, if it’s a step above their current situation. Sometimes it’s a late night conversation; sometimes, someone needs a kick in the ass. Koushi is happy to deliver what is needed when the occasion arises. He gives a piece of himself, and seeing someone succeed is--well, it’s always a risky investment, but it has proven to be worth the reward.

What Koushi doesn’t like is his generosity being mistaken for complacency. Even when he encounters someone more talented than himself, he does not want to volunteer himself to be a benchwarmer. When put into a corner, Koushi just wants to train harder, to make himself better, to deliver tosses with the promise that he deserves to be on the court, that he will help the team win.

Encountering Kageyama does not make him volunteer to give up his starting position at Karasuno; he has no choice but to forfeit it. Koushi never really dreamed about becoming a pro volleyball player; even if the Olympics helped introduce him to the sport, he has always had a ceiling, lower and lower each year, almost within reach. Win a few games in high school, enough to get noticed by a scout who will help him shave a sizable amount of yen off his university tuition. Volleyball is fun, but it won’t be forever.

But then Kageyama appears. Where Koushi has skill, Kageyama has _talent_ , the ability to go places Koushi wouldn’t dare to imagine. Maybe not the nicest personality--but Koushi has manicured his own. Kageyama can afford to work on his personality later; his tosses matter _now_.

Something like anger curdles in the pit of Koushi’s stomach that first night. His heart thumps in his chest, and it feels tight, like he’s been bound up in butcher paper and string.

He’s had tough losses before, but for the first time in his volleyball career, he cries.

He doesn’t fight Kageyama; he just tries to fight being bitter. It’s all too easy to go down that route, and oh, is he tempted. But Koushi is still on the team; he can still practice with Daichi, and Asahi, and the way that Kageyama looks at him--it looks like he wants to Koushi to set right alongside him, and he manages to do this without patronization or pity in his eyes. This makes it easier; he knows he can’t surpass Kageyama, so he might as well help him the best he can.

Kageyama proves to be much more than a prodigy; his ego needs some shaping, and Koushi won’t do all the work for him, but he can at least point him in the right direction. The fact that he looks to Koushi for volleyball advice makes Koushi laugh, genuinely. Kageyama ought to look to himself for those things, he thinks. But he still laughs, without self-depreciation. And every time Kageyama comes to him, Koushi feels his regret diminish, becoming something that is less, and less, and less.

Kageyama is late night convenience store ice cream sandwiches that Koushi refuses to accept money for, is blushing up to his ears pink no matter the mildest conversation topic. He is bruises and ice packs, stuttered sentences and smooth fingers locking with Koushi’s, warm kisses that lean down and press against his lips.

Kageyama becomes--is--Tobio.

And as Koushi finishes packing up his belongings for university, Tobio sitting on his empty bed with red-rimmed eyes, but also a smile, he has the feeling that he won’t just be a footnote in another setter’s biography.

They still need to meet on opposite sides of the net.


	16. kikuro unrequited love, G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "It's one thing to fall in love. It's another to feel someone else fall in love with you, and to feel a responsibility toward that love."
> 
> ( every day | david levithan )

Maybe there's an impression floating about Kuroko, that because he is so rarely noticed, he is a keen observer of thoughts and feelings, of all that happens around him. 

Sometimes, he hears conversations that are supposed to be private, but he doesn't think that's any fault of his own; he's learned to try to keep himself in sight. But all the other times, he's in the thick of it with everybody else; he isn't very perceptive of emotions until they are made obvious to him. 

He always remembers Kise acting in his usual Kise way--overly friendly, handsome, being either a bit more or a bit less of a dumb blond than initially portrayed to be, depending on the situation. He remembers Kise not liking him. He remembers this shifting into something else. Not quite respect, though not quite using him as means to an end. He isn't sure if he'd call Kise a friend, but he was at least a teammate, even if their styles of basketball weren't the same.

After playing each other on opposite sides of the court for the first time in high school, Kise took Kuroko into the hallway of his school, kissed him on the mouth, eyes still glinting with the spark he gets on the court, and told him he couldn't wait until the next time they played. At the time, Kuroko wrote this off as another Kise-ism, a way of responding to Kuroko's casual writing-offs of allegations of their friendship, because, well--were they friends? They texted sometimes; or at least Kise sent him texts, and Kuroko replied to the ones that warranted responses. They talked about basketball sometimes, but neither of them followed the pros too intensely; those conversations never held too much water. Kuroko never felt inclined to visit him in Kanagawa. They were just two people who existed, sometimes in the same place, but that's all they had in common.

But Kise still texts him, with an excess of emojis. Kise still chews on the gristle plucked from bones of long-dead topics. Kise still drops by Kuroko’s school, even when the rush hour commuters will lengthen his journey home. The realization sinks into Kuroko slowly, but it still surprises him when it clicks into place. 

He doesn't understand it. Why did Kise fall for him, of all people? Was he so used to people falling for him that someone saying no to him was a challenge to overcome? Did Kuroko do something that could have been interpreted as playing hard to get? What was it? When?

There's a thought in his mind, that if he leans in to it, he'll learn how to love Kise back. But Kuroko has never been one particularly inclined towards romance, both in theory and practice. 

From what he's observed, relationships are mutually agreed-upon things. Kuroko can't see himself agreeing to this; if he did, it would just be an attempt to absolve himself of guilt, an emotional debt he would be unable to repay. And this is the strongest emotion he's ever felt for Kise so far, surpassing the respect he has for him as an athlete; a profound sadness that he cannot bear to name.


	17. ushioi at university, T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “Going green doesn’t start with doing green acts — it starts with a shift in consciousness." 
> 
> \-- Ian Somerhalder
> 
> (ushijima going to [tokyo university of agriculture's](http://www.ics-com.biz/nodai/undergraduate/faculty/agriculture/index.html) atsugi campus in kanagawa...)

Tooru is half-sunk into the mattress of Wakatoshi’s bed. He’s propped up on his elbow, one eye forced closed by the way his fist presses into his cheek, glasses not askew enough to really bother the other eye. He stares out the window at the Kanagawa cityscape, the smaller skyscrapers and advertisements illuminating even Wakatoshi’s quaint neighborhood, the night sky still bright with light pollution. The only dark things are lines of alleyways and a good portion of Nodai’s surrounding campus, as a newer, yet logical initiative of the school’s mission.

There’s another source of light, closer, just a few feet away from him: Wakatoshi sitting in his desk chair, the warm light of his lamp illuminating a five-subject notebook beside him and the posters of mountains and environmental slogans plastered on the wall above. The span of his back mostly obscures his laptop screen, but Tooru can hear the patters of his fingers on the keyboard like steady rainfall, slowing to drizzle, and sometimes to a brief moment of silence, only to pick back up again. Tooru turns to look at Wakatoshi, the way how he, a man who stands so tall with confidence, hunches over with focus at his desk. The smile that comes to his mouth is sleepy and small, but almost reflexive at this point.

He rolls over onto his stomach, reaches for his watch on the bedside table--although he has to squint at the face, he’s sure he forgot to turn his phone’s brightness down, and this is still more comfortable. He should be heading to bed soon; the volleyball team has a game tomorrow in Kanagawa, his whole excuse to come out here, aside from his boyfriend. Not that Wakatoshi is all too far from Tokyo in the first place; not that he doesn’t visit Tooru on free weekends. But he still has to figure out how to get to the university they’re playing at--though maybe Wakatoshi will accompany Tooru, letting him doze on his shoulder on the subway ride there. Maybe Wakatoshi will sit among the crowd, watching Tooru in a way that still makes his skin prickle, evaluative and proud and tinged with regret, mourning something he had to give up in pursuit of his career.

Tooru doesn’t mean to be insensitive, but the thought makes him laugh. There are no maybes with Wakatoshi; of course he will come.

Wakatoshi’s fingers stop at the noise; his chair creaks as he turns to look at Tooru. Tooru lifts a hand, beckoning him.

“Come here. Make me even more sore tomorrow morning.”

Wakatoshi lifts his chin in appraisal. His chair creaks again as he turns back to the laptop, saving his document. Then, it goes dark. So does the lamp, and the other side of the bed depresses with his body weight. Wakatoshi’s fingers pulls Tooru’s glasses from his ears--a motion that is always a little bit awkward no matter how often it is practiced--and presses his lips against his. All of Wakatoshi is warm; his mouth, his bare chest. Tooru loops his arms around his neck.

“Again? Really?”

Despite his lack of a smile, there’s a spark of mirth in Wakatoshi’s voice. Tooru hums a laugh at the corner of his mouth, fingers slipping around to trail over his shoulder blades.

“No. Just keep me company.”


	18. fukushin pirates, G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "On a ship across the ocean, eat lemons. Keep lemons in your pockets, think of sunlight, think of another life, eat the rind, the seeds. For seasickness, tell yourself a story that takes place in a field of grass."
> 
> \--Alice Hoffman, from My Grandmother's Recipe for Life

Hayato is lying out on the deck of the ship, stripped of all but his trousers. There’s no need for him, or anyone else on the crew, to keep watch right now; the sea around them is a quiet green-blue. 

It’s the middle of the day; if a line could be drawn from the sun down to Hayato’s eyes, it would be as straight as the shaft of an arrow. There are clouds in the distance, but that’s just what they are-- _distant_. Unless he goes below deck, there’s no escaping this heat.

They’re in the middle of the ocean, heading back west with a party of captured emissaries from a foreign land, who have been roughed up enough over the past three days that they mostly keep quiet in the cellar now. This ship, these garments, the kegs of gunpowder down below--everything they possess and then some had been ransacked from the foreigners, save for the old _Hakone_ , flanking the bigger ship. Arakita says he can sell it when they get back home, though Hayato is sure his personality is more suited to a thief than a merchant. But if Juichi trusts him, well.

Hayato rolls a lemon between his palms. He covers his eyes with his abandoned shirt, but the sun still attempts to bore through the white fabric, the insides of his eyelids still illuminated when he closes them.

He’s not sure for how long he’s been napping (the sun’s position suggests for very little, if at all) when he hears the familiar creak of the cabin door opening, steady footsteps coming up to the deck. They approach him, stopping when they are close. Hayato pulls the shirt from his eyes, squinting. Juichi is standing there; Hayato wishes he would lean above him just so, blocking out the sun.

Hayato sits up, and Juichi lowers himself into a crouch. His jaw sets; he’s still wearing the ruffled blouse, though the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.

“You’re on duty. You ought to show some decorum.”

“It’s hot, _taichou_. Even Toudou isn’t very dressed up in his fashions today.”

Juichi hums, his steely gaze softening a touch in agreement. His hand covers Hayato’s, still cool from below, then takes the lemon from him. He hefts the weight in his palm, drawing a knife from his belt; Hayato watches how the hilt of his sword sparkles in the sunlight. He places the lemon on the grain of the deck, then halves it; he continues to cut one of the halves further, not into chunks but circles of slices, which he offers to Hayato. Hayato takes a bite of the slice, rind and yellow flesh and all; it’s warm from the sun, but the sour juice fills his mouth with an attempt at cooling him. 

Juichi sinks to his knees and offers the other half lemon to Hayato, leaning his head over his lap like ritual. Hayato grips the lemon and squeezes, wringing the juice out over Juichi’s sun-bleached hair; it flows over his knuckles, and he combs his fingers over Juichi’s hair when the lemon gives no more, almost drying sticky already. Juichi turns his head just so, his lips catching the flesh of Hayato’s palm.

“Come down and rest,” He tells him, less of a murmur than it is a diluted order. “I need you healthy when we reach shore.”


	19. kise + kuroko + gom mmorpg AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [prompt](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/24808.html?thread=15142120#cmt15142120) that i nearly forgot i had written

Kuroko inhales, holds his breath, exhales.

The innards of the tower smell ripe and mossy, like morning dew bottled up and left to ferment. The stones are cast in gray, weeds sprouting between the seams in the winding staircase, sprawling green thanks to the narrow beams of sunlight that filter in through the high gaps in the brick acting as windows. 

The steps are wide enough for two, but it’s just Kuroko on his own right now, a rogue with little talent for fighting or spellcasting. It seems stupid, sending him up into the dungeon on his own armed with nothing more than his dwindling stock of healing potions. He had forgotten to buy more in the last town his party passed through, and they all think it’s a waste of what talent he has, the way he insists to pay merchants for their wares instead of stealing them--if they notice them, that is. (He usually has to resort to stealing items in the end, slipping coins into sacks in return, but Aomine had gotten into a fight on Murasakibara’s behalf at the beer hall, so they ended up needing to depart earlier than intended).

The tower is similar to the one they rescued their prince from, minus the fingernails torn to shreds, the wood scratched up and stained with blood. The rumors say there's a werebeast guarding the treasure at the top, a man with jagged stripes decorating his body, if you manage to see his human form. Sending Kuroko in on his own is nearly guaranteeing his death, but Midorima, their long distance archer, has been remedied useless by the tower’s structure. Kuroko’s stealth is the next best thing they've got. 

The door creaks as Kuroko slips inside, quickly, into the dark refuge of a shadow. The room is empty, save for a tiger about three times his size, snoring, slumbering atop a treasure chest, claw hooked possessively around the rib of a half-eaten carcass. The remains aren’t human, as far as Kuroko can tell, but it still makes him shiver. He takes the enchanted gem out of his pocket, presses it with his thumb so it glows a pale blue, and brings it to his lips.

“There’s nothing to hide behind, Momoi-san,” Kuroko whispers into the gem. “We’ll all get slaughtered if we do a close-range attack.”

“It’s a shame Midorin is still sulking,” Momoi singsongs in response, and Kuroko stiffens, the tiger yawning in his sleep. “Don’t worry, Tetsu-kun You know I have a plan.”

Kuroko sighs, shoving the crystal back into the depths of his pocket. He thumbs the hilt of the dagger at his belt. A loose pebble falls from the bricks above him, striking his skull.

“Ow.” Kuroko holds his head, looking up. “Kise-kun.”

“Hi, Kurokocchi!” Kise calls to him in a hushed voice, perched in a gap up above, his grin still flashing in the semidarkness. “I heard you needed some help.”

“I thought Akashi-kun told you to stay back,” Kuroko suggests, eyeing Kise’s cuffed trouser leg, bandages wrapped around his ankle.

“I’ll be fine,” Kise tells him, though his voice still wavers as he extends the injured limb down, fingers gripping the brick. “I just need to--”

Kuroko curses seconds before it happens, Kise slipping from the wall, a yelp echoing in the chamber. He dashes underneath him, and Kise’s body hits him with a dull thud, the both of them sprawling out over the dungeon floor.

“Wow,” Kise grins, wincing, lifting a hand to touch Kuroko’s cheek. “You’re so handsome when you try to save me.”

“Thanks,” Kuroko closes his eyes, hearing a roar build behind them. “I can’t say I can do it twice.”

___

Kuroko sighs, hefting his headphones off of his ears, watching the textbox at the bottom of the screen fill with dark blue curses, only becoming more unintelligible when responded to with yellow emojis. His pixelated form lies limp in front of him, bloodied, his hit points down to zero. Not only that, but another point has dropped from his maximum total. It keeps dropping, nearly half the amount of his friends’, despite being the same level. He puts his headphones back on.

“Midorima-kun, when will you fix this HP glitch?” He listens as Midorima huffs out a breath.

“Just because I wear glasses doesn’t mean I know how to hack into a game.”

“...Akashi-kun?”

“We’ll see,” Akashi’s voice fills his ears, evaluative, but with a touch of praise. “You still might survive next time.”


End file.
